


Dépaysement

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: FIFA World Cup 2014, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Paris (City), Romance, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2040564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Firthivated's prompt: "Robbie leaves for vacation. James secretly follows him hoping to "inadvertently" run into Robbie and see if all those undercurrents are just his imagination and whether being away from work/Oxford will make a difference."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dépaysement

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Callicat for the encouragement and beta-read! (and thank you, paperscribe :-) ) Not Brit-picked, so any errors are mine.

**Dépaysement**  
French – The feeling that comes from not being in one’s home country.

James didn't notice when his wallet was lifted, but he did notice when the weight of his iPhone disappeared from his breast pocket because he was bumped from behind. 

"Oi! You!" He shouted, spinning around to face the doors closing on Le Paris Metro as it sped away. He swore loudly, in English, and received a dirty look from an ancient Parisienne standing on the platform. He offered a sincere apology, in French. He had just enough money in his trouser pocket for coffee and a phone call. Feeling stupid, angry, and embarrassed, he imagined the glee on the pilferers faces when they discovered they'd scammed a copper. 

He imagined Innocent's face when he explained what had happened to his warrant card. Not to mention explaining to her how the devil he'd come to be in Paris in the first place.

She hadn't had any problem granting him leave—he certainly had enough accrued and it was only two days, mid-week. She signed him off gladly, reminding him that he would be at her beck and call all summer long. She did wonder at the timing, since he was absenting himself at the same time as Robbie Lewis. But they no longer worked directly together now that Lewis was 'retired.' Besides, Lewis and Hobson were together now, weren't they, and all was right with the world. 

Except that Lewis and Hobson had very quietly called it quits about two weeks ago, parting amicably without much fanfare or regret on either side.

Lewis had been curiously circumspect in sharing his plans for his days off. He wasn't going to Manchester, Hathaway thought his wedding anniversary was a couple of months in the past, Lyn's birthday was several months in the future. No conferences, not planning any additional time at the allotment, not moving house, not doing flat repairs. 

It was Hobson who told him about the trip, who encouraged Hathaway to take a chance.

"You'd be doing me a favor," insisted Hobson. "I can't very well go with Robbie to Paris now, can I? I could use it to visit Franco, I suppose. It's a transferable Eurostar ticket. But it wouldn't be right even though I paid for it. Spirit of the trip and all." A knowing grin lit up her features. "You could surprise Robbie." Her face softened. "He arranged this trip before we got together, you know, so it must be important. Be nice to know why, don't you think?"

Which is why Hathaway was standing on a street corner, in Paris, having followed his former boss to the City of Lights.

When he got up this morning he wasn't even sure he'd have the guts to play out this scenario, but he was curious. Why Paris? Why now, of all times? Mid-June, hot, muggy, filled with tourists. And the FIFA World Cup was up. Lewis was a football fan, why leave his comfortable couch for a too-expensive hotel room?

Nothing like a mystery to get a detective's blood up. 

So as he kept several car lengths behind Lewis on the M40 in the too early hours of the morning, he congratulated himself on a brilliant plan. He'd follow Lewis to the long term car park at King's Cross and take the Chunnel to Paris—just for the day, he said to himself. Just for fun.

Fun? Yes, because he was having fun tailing Lewis. Ducking his head and turning as Lewis stopped to look in shop windows. Hiding behind a pillar, observing Lewis. He could spend—had spent—hours watching the man. Even from behind, brief glimpse of his head, and there he was, as if separate from the milling crowd around him. 

_I'd make a good stalker,_ Hathaway mused. 

There was a piano at King's Cross with a sign inviting people to play; he stood at a distance as Lewis listened to a little girl playing a Mozart piece that echoed through the station. Watching from a distance as Lewis boarded the train and then scrambling to get to his seat in another car. An hour and a half later found himself wishing he had brought a more captivating book with yet another hour to go. He couldn't keep from wondering what Lewis was doing, what he was thinking.

_Why Paris?_ The train passed beautiful French countryside, idyllic villages clustered around ancient churches— _what was in Paris?_

He spotted Lewis easily as they disembarked. Going through the border at the station was problematic, however, since the EU passport line was short and the reception space was open. Hathaway held back, not wanting to be spotted yet. 

Hobson had said Lewis had a room at a boutique hotel on the Champs Élysées. "Spitting distance to the Arc de Triomphe," Hobson said. Easy enough to bump into the man there. 

What he hadn't expected was Lewis sitting on a bench in the station drinking coffee and munching a croissant as he looked through the map of Le Metro. 

It was almost as if Lewis was waiting for him. 

Hathaway suppressed a grin as he saw Lewis sigh dramatically and toss his map onto the bench as he walked slowly away. 

Had he been spotted? He was slouching so much his back ached. He wasn't wearing anything that Lewis would recognize: he had taken care to look like an academic on holiday, wearing out of date khaki slacks and a rumpled dress shirt beneath an old linen suit jacket. He even had a pair of costume glasses and an ancient messenger bag to complete the disguise. Add a pith helmet and he might have been a representative of the National Geographic Society before WWII. 

Lewis, for his part, looked like he normally did. Suit and tie. 

It made Hathaway wonder—not for the first time—if this had been a good idea. Perhaps Lewis was visiting an aging relative, perhaps he was attending a funeral.

Though to make reservations months in advance for either situation was a bit off.

Hathaway idly picked up the discarded metro map, saw where a greasy finger from a buttery croissant had smeared the type, tracing a path from the train station to the Arc de Triomphe.

Yeah, he'd been made. 

Given that, he should catch up with Lewis and enjoy the trip into the city with him. 

Except it was getting crowded. 

He hurried down to the subway, pushing past people, trying to get to the yellow line—and there was Lewis, waiting till the last minute to squeeze on board. To his credit, though, he didn't check to see if Hathaway was still in pursuit.

 _Oh, he can see me in the reflection of the glass on the map board there. Very good,_ thought Hathaway, as he steeled himself for the close quarters of the ride during morning rush hour. 

He hated crowds. 

He stood clinging to a hand strap, carefully watching the route map above the windows. A light for each station went on as they approached—a good thing since announcements were garbled or drowned out by the conversation of people around him. 

In England, regular Tube riders were quiet and reserved, for the most part. Tourists were the loud ones. On the Paris Metro, however, the tourists cowered in silence in deference to the French, who expressed their thoughts loudly and at great length whether anyone was listening or not. 

Algeria. Everyone was rooting for Algiers to win their football set. Never happen. Not in a million years. Ah, but if it did? If it did, monsieur, it would be miraculous and there would be parades throughout Paris, we would rise up--

Hathaway sighed. England had lost, again, so he no longer cared, really. He only followed football so that he could talk with Lewis about it.

More truthfully, he only followed so that he could sit companionably close to Lewis on Lewis' couch and share take away and beer with Lewis as Lewis watched. In return, Lewis put up with documentaries on the off-season. 

So he'd been thinking about Lewis when he was pickpocketed. Served him right, daydreaming like that.

He patted the other pocket, reassuring himself that his passport was still there, and, lo, the fates had smiled on him: he still had his warrant card. At least he wouldn't have to face Innocent. But his wallet was gone, along with his credit cards and a hundred Euro. Still, he had a return—no, he didn't have that anymore either as it was on his phone.

_Shit._

Hathaway climbed to street level wearily, trying to find the positive aspects of his dilemma. At least he wasn't lost: there was the Arc de Triomphe. He had lost his wallet, lost Lewis, and lost his self-respect, but he wasn't actually lost. 

This was a fiasco. He sat down on one of the concrete road barriers that surrounded the sidewalk along the round-about-road of the monument, head in his hands. Sure, he could call Lewis. 

Except he didn't have his bloody phone.

And he'd have to explain what he was doing in Paris in the first place. He could lie and say that he didn't realize where Lewis was going, had followed him for an expensive bit of fun that he couldn't really afford and while that was partially true, he had promised himself he wouldn't lie to Lewis or himself any longer. 

That's what this trip was about. He didn't want to lie anymore about how he felt about the man—whatever it was. Because that was the problem, wasn't it? He couldn't give what he felt a name—couldn't define it, couldn't justify it. Couldn't find a passage or a poem or song lyric that adequately expressed how he felt when he and Lewis were together. Whitman, Housman, Shelley—all the boys in the band. The Bard. Nothing compared, nothing was exactly right. He'd even taken pen to paper himself trying to put it into words and nothing was more satisfying than burning those futile attempts at poetry, those pathetic attempts at a tune.

His relationship with Lewis defied description, apparently. Or maybe it took all of the words in the Oxford dictionary to describe its complexity, its sweetness. Because it wasn't merely love or devotion or cherishing the man. 

_What was it about Lewis?_

_And why the hell was he in Paris?_

Their relationship kept returning to this feeling of closeness and camaraderie and—James felt—something more. He wasn't sure what 'something more' entailed or meant, but he needed to find out.

He was glad he had this second opportunity to do so. When Hobson and Lewis got together, he was convinced that whatever he imagined existed between him and Lewis was gone forever. He mourned its loss, truly stunned by the acute feeling of profound confusion because he wanted Lewis to be happy and yet he was hurt that Lewis was happy with Hobson.

But he would never have made a move had it not been for Laura Hobson, gently prodding him to 'do something.'

He wasn't about to waste this second chance.

He pulled a cigarette from his pack. As he went to light it, he noticed his lighter was gone too.

He crumbled the cigarette and let the tobacco fall through his fingers onto the pavement.

"Glad to see that," said a familiar Geordie voice. "Does this mean you're giving them up?"

Hathaway looked up. The sun was behind Lewis' head, giving him the halo of a saint.

"Spotted you ten minutes out of Oxford," said Lewis, sitting down beside him.

"You didn't."

"Did. Drive like you're James Bond, you do, darting in and out of traffic. Kept me busy, wondering if you were going to crash into a lorry."

"Sorry." Hathaway sighed. 

"Not like you to give up so easily." Lewis took a deep breath. "Well, day is young. Need to drop off my bag. Going to join me? Or follow me?"

"Join you. If you'll have me." 

"'Course." Lewis scrutinized him. "What's on, man?"

Hathaway gave Lewis a pained look. "I got pick pocketed. Cards, iPhone, lighter. Still have my warrant card, though."

"Small favors." Lewis leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, and handed him his mobile. "Cancel your cards and phone."

"I'm only staying for the day. I can do it when I get back."

Lewis wrinkled his forehead. "Did they hit on the head, too? C'mon, we'll go up to the room and you can take care of it." He rose. "And I know that look—you're not putting me out. I—I'd like the company," he admitted.

The hotel was indeed within 'spitting distance' of the monument. As they climbed to the fifth floor, Lewis had almost talked Hathaway into staying the night on the floor, if necessary, though when he opened the door it was apparent the full size bed took up most of the small room—there was no floor to speak of. Two floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a slice of alleyway and a view of the Paris skyline in the direction of the Seine.

"I remembered it as being bigger," Lewis muttered, setting his bag on the bed. A pocket door revealed a sleek, modern bathroom—all stone and glass, done to miniature perfection.

"With that view, it doesn't need to be," marveled Hathaway, leaning cautiously out the window. He gave a wave to someone below and ducked back into the room. 

Lewis opened his bag, took something out and tucked it into his pocket. "How's your French?"

Hathaway replied in French. "Rusty, but adequate. Yours?"

"Better than you might expect," said Lewis in the same language. "You look surprised."

"I am, frankly. Are you a secret Franco-phile?"

"No. I've just had a few years to prepare meself is all." Lewis ducked into the bathroom, clothes in his arms. He re-appeared a few moments later in jeans and polo shirt. Seeing Hathaway's surprise, he explained, "Not quite awake when I got up, halfway dressed before I remembered where I was off to. But I see you got into the spirit of the chase. Call that a disguise, do you?"

Hathaway put on the glasses in reply, startling a laugh out of the other man. He didn't mention that he'd lain awake all night working through scenario after scenario wondering how this would go.

"Suits you." Lewis glanced at his watch and then sat on the bed, back against the headboard. He flipped on the TV, set it on mute, and searched for football.

"Did you rent a hotel room in Paris simply to watch football?" The 'sir' wasn't spoken, but he might as well have said it aloud, so ingrained was the habit.

"No. We have a bit of time, though. Get yourself squared away there with the cards and we'll get to it."

"I like Algeria for the match," said Hathaway, glancing at the television as he waited on hold. He shrugged out of the jacket and settled against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder with Lewis for a moment before sitting forward, blushing suddenly. _We're in a bed._

"You don't follow football," snorted Lewis, looking at his watch for the third time. "Favoring the underdog to win. Big softie, you are." 

"This can wait," Hathaway began, gesturing with the phone, on hold yet again. 

"Nope. Don't have to be downstairs for another eight minutes." Lewis quirked a grin, eyes fixed on the telly.

 _I am not giving you the satisfaction of asking where we're off to,_ thought Hathaway, as he quickly took care of business. He rang off, handed back the mobile, and rose, grabbing the jacket. 

"Gonna be warm. You can leave—that—jacket, is it?" Lewis stared at the wrinkled thing Hathaway held in his hands.

"I'll have you know I paid two quid for my finery."

"You got taken," said Lewis as the room phone rang. "That's us, then."

Downstairs, a van loaded with tourists awaited them. 

Hathaway groaned softly.

"Shut it, you. We're only on the damn thing to get in the Louvre early," muttered Lewis as they wedged themselves in.

"And we're off," said the tour guide, brightly. "As I was saying, be careful of your belongings, particularly your phones. We'll go through security, then you'll get your headsets so that you can listen to—"

"Will we see the Mona Lisa?" an American in the back asked, loudly.

"Yes, but it will be quite crowded, so follow the plushy butterfly." She trilled, holding up a stick where a large, stuffed butterfly flopped its neon pink wings.

"Plushy butterfly," smirked Hathaway. 

Lewis elbowed him in reply.

The group entrance in the back was mercifully free of other tourists, so it made escape impossible: they were doomed to do the tour at least until they got fully inside to melt into the regular museum crowd. They donned headsets and hung bright red receivers around their necks like everyone else. They marched at the back of the pack past stone walls of the original palace, the tour guide's inane patter and pink butterfly leading the way. 

"This is a fresh version of hell," whispered Hathaway.

"Don't go correcting her, now," said Lewis, grinning. 

The group stopped briefly at the Sphinx and then they were off again, a breakneck pace, said the guide, so that they could get to the Mona Lisa before the crowds. 

"I've heard of speed reading, but speed art?" said Lewis. "Don't think we've actually looked at anything. You've been here?"

"I studied here. For a week." Hathaway took off his headset. 

"Course you did," huffed Lewis, putting the headset around his neck. 

"May I ask why we're here?"

"It's a tour. Awp—there goes the plushy butterfly."

They trudged up another flight of stairs, noticing that the number of people in the museum had suddenly swelled. There were numerous tours lead by colorful closed umbrellas, flags, and neon vested docents—but only one plushy butterfly. 

Hathaway appreciated the whimsy of the thing, but it wasn't a tour as much as it was a race: first prize was a glimpse of the Mona Lisa. The room containing the piece was literally as packed as the Metro had been that morning. Floor to ceiling signs warned of pickpockets.

What the signs failed to caution for were the number of people who felt the need to take selfies while standing in front of the painting. The number of people who were giving incorrect information about the work to the people in their party, the number of people who were taking video of an inanimate object to show how her eyes followed you.

It was all very alarming.

Hathaway was standing behind Lewis when the man was bumped by a squad of uniformed schoolchildren. He backed into Hathaway, who steadied him with hands on his shoulders until the children passed. 

He was about to lift his hands when he noticed that Lewis had melted into him, molding his back to Hathaway's front.

 _It would be so easy to put my arms around his middle, to hold him fast,_ Hathaway's thoughts raced. He held his breath, waiting for Lewis to step away from the light touch of hands on shoulders.

Lewis stayed. 

They stood, staring at the Mona Lisa, not moving. Crowds swirled around them, an eddy of humanity surging back and forth.

Hathaway slid his hands off the shoulders, down, stopping at Lewis' upper arm, feeling the muscles tense initially and then relax. They breathed in unison. _We are pressed together because of the crowd,_ Hathaway rationalized. He wanted to tell Lewis that it was believed that the Mona Lisa's face was actually that of Da Vinci's male lover, that they had sailed past a similar, earlier painting in another gallery. 

He didn't. He didn't dare move. 

"The plushy butterfly is gone," murmured Lewis. 

"Should we give chase?" Hathaway whispered, his head not quite touching the other man. _Lewis smells of sunshine,_ he thought, irrationally, _scruffy cheeked in weekend clothes._ He sighed and stepped back. "She'll want this back," he took off the receiver and headset. 

Lewis gave him an enigmatic look— _oh, an imitation of the Mona Lisa!_ And they were off. 

"Aren't you enjoying the tour?" Said the guide, pouting as they returned headsets and receivers.

"We're pressed for time," Lewis apologized.

"We are?"

Lewis headed off, up another flight of stairs, following the signs to an outdoor pavilion of marble statues that was mercifully free of tourists. He captured a bench opposite two male figures writhing against each other and sat down. He glanced at Hathaway and an expression of sadness shrouded his face. He sighed heavily as he looked away.

 _Is it me,_ Hathaway wondered. _Was it that moment, just now, in the gallery? What was that? A friendly—what? Why aren't there words for whatever this is?_

He retreated to what he knew. "This group is known as 'The Wrestlers,' a seventeenth century copy made for Versailles by Philippe Magnier from a Roman marble copy of a Hellenistic bronze, 3rd century BCE."

"Course it is." Lewis smiled slightly. "Let's go get some water before we head out. Got a lot to do today."

There was a snack area above the main hall. Lewis paid for bottles of water and sandwiches. They watched for a moment as people swarmed and filled the area below. It was bright, oppressive, and noisy under the glass of the signature pyramid. 

"I don't remember it being this crowded," Lewis remarked as they left the complex. Their shoes crunched on the wide dirt boulevard framed by the impressive buildings on either side. "Or this hot." 

"When was that?"

Lewis ignored the question and pointed to a set of arches that split up one of the long wings of the museum. "Let's go that way and keep out of the way of the fellows selling iridescent Eiffel Towers."

++++

Coming out on the other side, they crossed the street so that they were walking along the Seine. There were fewer tourists walking here, the occasional bicycle tinged as it passed. Traffic hummed and honked in the street beside them. 

Lewis stared at the river, stopping every so often under the trees to look at the water, the boats moored along the edge, the exquisite buildings across the Seine. He didn't say a word.

It was a comfortable silence, familiar and safe. They stood shoulder to shoulder as they usually did, leaning on the stone wall that bordered the walkway, staring at the river. 

They walked on and came to one of several small bridges that crossed the Seine. The chain link fencing that ran from footpath to railing along the bridge shimmered with colored metal.

Padlocks.

Hathaway was amazed that they still allowed the practice: lovers would take a padlock, lock it to the fencing of the bridge and throw the key in the Seine, their love 'locked' forever more. The weight of some of the locks had actually pulled down parts of the bridge in some areas. And yet here was a fellow selling locks. 

Lewis brushed past the vendor and walked out onto the bridge, stopping in the middle, looking over the rail.

Hathaway stood rooted in place, pretending to listen to the sales pitch, wondering if he should follow, thinking about 'love locks.' 

Lewis turned, smiled slightly, and tilted his head as if to say, "Come on, then," before continuing his examination of the river.

Hathaway hurried to Lewis' side. I hear his voice in my head even when he isn't speaking, he thought, elbows on the rail, hands clasped. A hands breadth away, he waited.

"Not planning to jump in, are you?" Hathaway ventured.

Lewis chuckled, dug into the pocket of his jeans and drew out a medium size padlock painted with childish yellow flowers and 'Val + Robbie' writing in clunky cursive. "From Lyn. Tenth anniversary. I forgot to get one when Val and I came here on our honeymoon—they weren't as popular then." He looked around. The entire bridge seemed to be covered. 

"I promised that her mum and I would take it to Paris with us on our thirtieth. Would have been thirty years today." Lewis' eyes glimmered with tears, he cleared his throat, looking away until he recovered. "Right. When Laura and I—well, I'd already made plans, see, and the closer it came to the date, the more I realized it was all wrong, coming here with Laura."

"There are two bridges, though. One for lovers, one for committed love," Hathaway said.

"Dammit." Lewis spun on his heel. "We're on the wrong bloody bridge. This is the bridge for lovers." He walked off without a second glance.

Hathaway stood and stared. _What?_

Hathaway jammed his hands in the pockets of his ridiculous slacks, inwardly cringing, suddenly feeling unwelcome. _I should have known better. Following him here. Playing spies. Wanting—I don't even know what to call it. Except pathetic. Fucking pathetic is what it is._

_He needs to be alone with his memories._

James would have turned around, gone back—where? He had no bloody way to get home unless he called someone and the only person he could think of calling was waiting impatiently for him up ahead in the middle of Pont des Arts. 

The bridge for committed love had far fewer locks on it. Far fewer.

"Get a move on, James," said Lewis, irritably. He held the flowered lock in his hand, hasp open. He heaved a sigh, closed his eyes for a moment. A tear pooled near his eye.

Hathaway glanced away. "Do you—would you rather be alone?" he managed.

"No," Lewis cleared his throat. "I'd like you to be my witness. Someday you won't find an excuse to miss out on a weekend in Manchester and you can tell Lyn you were here when I kept my promise." Lewis quickly locked the lock onto the chain link, palmed the key for a minute longer, and opened his hand over the river. 

Hathaway turned away. His job as witness was done. He hazarded a look at Lewis who smiled at him, then, that gentle smile he seemed to reserve only for James Hathaway. 

"You're all right, James."

 _How can he make me come undone with a look?_ "It's an honor and a privilege. Robbie."

"You'll love this next bit. So, let's to church," said Lewis on a slow exhale. "Bit of Shakespeare for you."

"Is it?"

" 'Shakespeare in Love'. The movie." Lewis took his bearings. "Notre Dame and then Sainte Chapelle."

"Sainte Chapelle? Is it open? It was closed for renovation when I was here last." 

"We're on a pilgrimage, James. First Notre Dame—though I don't want to stay there any longer than necessary." Lewis rubbed an ear. "Always think of Charles Laughton swinging from the parapets yelling, 'Sanctuary! Sanctuary!'"

"The penultimate expression of Gothic architecture and you're thinking of an old movie."

"Thinking of the crowds and lines, mostly."

"Pilgrimage?"

"Right." Lewis nodded, took a deep breath. "Val went to Paris once in school, thought it was romantic. I'd never been. Seemed like as good a place as any for a honeymoon. We'd been married for a bit before we could afford it, though, so it was a belated holiday. Didn't have the Chunnel then, so took a good while to get here. Still. We did the best of Paris in a day."

"I don't think I've ever heard Paris described 'as good a place as any for a honeymoon.'"

Lewis pursed his lips. "We had a weekend at a B and B right enough after the wedding because I had to work and so I promised Paris as soon as we could afford it. Promised we'd go again on our thirtieth."

"And you always keep your promises."

Lewis nodded. 

Hathaway weighed the words, trying to decide if he dared ask for more. Now he knew why Paris, why now, and what it meant to Robbie.

He wanted to say something meaningful and sympathetic, but couldn't find the words. Couldn't think of a quote. Couldn't think of anything except Robbie Lewis standing there waiting for some response. 

He settled for a small smile and a tiny nod.

The route along the Seine took them past the on-going refurbishing at Sainte Chapelle—huge screens hid the ancient building from view. They rounded a corner and there was Notre Dame two streets beyond, lines snaking out of the great doors on either side, the stone courtyard filled with people milling about. 

"God."

"Yep," Hathaway said, popping the 'p'. "Shall we?"

Lewis looked at the line, then checked his watch. "We're on the site. You really want to go inside?"

"Not really. I've spent quite a bit of time inside. But it's your pilgrimage."

"I don't want you to miss Sainte Chapelle. Val liked it better anyway. Said it had more of a feel to it than its copy at Exeter College."

The line for Sainte Chapelle involved a fee, metal detectors, and then they were inside the courtyard walls, staring at the scaffolding that crept up the building.

"This isn't the good part," said Lewis, leading Hathaway into the ground floor.

"The relics have been moved to Notre Dame," said Hathaway, reading the free pamphlet. He looked up. The church was a nice, simple example of early Gothic, detailed painting on the vaults. _Nice windows. Surely those can't be the windows to which the pamphlet was referring. This was supposed to be Louis IX's palace chapel._

"You realize this church was erected by Saint Louis."

"Yeah, but this isn't what you need to see," said Lewis again, tugging on Hathaway's arm. "C'mon."

They made their way to a small opening, an absurdly narrow stone circular staircase curled straight up. No one seemed to be going upstairs. 

Hathaway glanced around, wondering if they were allowed to do so. _Wither thou goest, then._ And followed Lewis up the stairs.

The stone stairs ended in a path of torn linoleum and as he came around the corner, his breath was taken away as the linoleum ended.

The upper level was almost silent—a tight knot of people stared at the twelve, huge stained glass windows effortlessly held between the thin Gothic arches. It was a bright, sunny day, and the colors of the glass left intense blue, red, yellow and green smudges on the white stone floor. The 13th century glass was slowly being restored, each piece cleaned and re-leaded—the upper portions of the windows sparkled in the sunshine. There was a sense of peace here that differed markedly from the sense of circus he remembered from years ago at Notre Dame.

Lewis tilted his head to indicate a bench along one wall, and they sat shoulder to shoulder as they usually did. 

Then Lewis took his hand and held it, as if he'd been doing this for years. Their fingers intertwined with an intimacy that was both familiar and new and completely astonishing.

There was a lump in Hathaway's throat. He squeezed Lewis' hand. 

Robbie squeezed back. "Watch." They sat holding hands for nearly an hour as tourists came and went. Hathaway's thoughts were a maelstrom. The same few who sat on the benches waited, watched, and just as a bell rang for closing, they saw it:

The angle of the descending sun lit up a band of red glass along the windows and turned the white floor to fire. There was a general intake of breath, as if they all had shared something miraculous, and then it was gone, like the green flare of the sun before it sets over the ocean.

Hathaway ducked his head shyly. "Cheers."

Robbie squeezed his hand again and let it go. "Now we get to eat snails."

Hathaway huffed a laugh. "Just what I wanted to hear."

++++  
Because it was summer, the late afternoon sky seemed to be in a perpetual state of almost, but not quite sunset—the clouds tinged pink, magenta, and indigo, the air still warm. One of the restaurants across from Notre Dame had turned the chairs on its patio to face the parade of humanity on the boulevard. 

Hathaway lit a cigarette like most of the patrons and pulled an ashtray close. _Why did Robbie hold his hand? What was that about?_

His thoughts began to race again. 

"Red or white?"

"Sorry?" Hathaway blurted.

Lewis raised his eyebrows. "What goes best with snails—red or white?"

"White," said Hathaway, not paying attention.

"Red," the waiter corrected, gently. 

"Um. May I have a large glass of red white wine, please?"

The waiter looked at Lewis, confused.

Lewis held open the menu. "Would you choose something for us in this range?" 

The waiter scurried away.

"Red white wine? Thinking of rose, were you? Or something else on your mind?"

Hathaway shook his head, fiddled with unrolling his napkin. "Long day."

"Not over yet," muttered Lewis, casting him a glance. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He gave a wan smile, folding his hands neatly. He wanted to run away, screaming, just for a moment. He wasn't sure if it the impulse was born of fear or joy.

Lewis sighed and got up, clapping Hathaway on the shoulder as he left the table.

Hathaway hung his head and then looked up. The sky was getting dark above him, the first stars appearing. He could hear the World Cup playbacks and commentary coming from the bar in the restaurant behind him.

He bit on the edge of his thumbnail and then settled for banging his knuckle against his lips. What was he going to do? He couldn't play it cool, couldn't become a 'man of the world' in the next two or three hours, no matter how accomplished he was at lying or acting—he'd done both for years. And what would be the point? He had resolved not to lie, not to act, and shouldn't Robbie accept that he was terrified of screwing this up? 

Not that he could say anything to that effect.

"Bet on your call, Algeria. Five Euros. They've got a board up in the bar."

The waiter returned with wine, escargot, bread, and a plate of ma'akouda, since they were backing Algeria. "The chef is from Africa and remembers what the Germans did."

"I would think all of France can recall what the Germans did," said Hathaway, as the waiter bustled away.

Lewis quirked a grin. "In 1982 the West Germans played in a way that took the game from Algeria—bit of back room dealing that made FIFA change the rules. If Algeria wins, it'll be their first time in the playoffs. And if Algeria beats Russia, they go against Germany in the next round."

"Oh."

"Yeah. 'Oh.' Are you all right, James? I'd ask if the snails were off, but you haven't touched them."

"I don't like snails," Hathaway's voice was quiet. He drank most of his wine and then looked at Robbie, surprised. "This is excellent wine."

Lewis smiled. "What exactly did you do while you were in France besides not drink the wine and not eat the local insects?" 

Hathaway sighed, trying for an off-handed, almost bored tone. "Studied, mostly." 

Lewis put his hand over Hathaway's, his thumb rubbing the knuckles absently. He didn't look at James. "You're distracted. You know how I know? I said snails are insects and you didn't correct me."

Hathaway stared at the interplay of their fingers, the way they intertwined, so natural. Robbie's hand was warm and soft against his own. _Why is he holding my hand? What does this mean?_ "Sorry, what?"

The moment was broken by the apologetic waiter serving food and pouring more wine. He lit the candle on the table explaining that the lights outside would be turned down so that they could see the lights sparkle along the Seine.

"This is enchanting," Hathaway said, quietly, his hands now tightly clasped in front of him as if in prayer. "Everything. Thank you, Robbie, for allowing me to join you on your pilgrimage."

Lewis picked up his glass and touched it to Hathaway's. "Meant a lot to me, you being here. And—" Robbie nodded thoughtfully. "—and well, it felt right, somehow."

Hathaway quirked a smile, retreating to familiar ground. He lifted his glass. "It was the plushy butterfly."

Lewis snorted a laugh. 

Hathaway lit another cigarette and settled back, wine glass in hand. Lewis started commenting on the people as they passed by. Oh, look at those two—an elderly couple walking in sync—still in love after all those years together. There's a family. First time in Paris. There she goes with the camera again. Why is it people will look through a lens but won't look at what's right in front of them?

Hathaway listened to the patter and realized that Lewis was as nervous about this—whatever this was— as he was. He never talked this much, never. "A lens allows you to distance yourself from the experience," he offered.

"You use words," murmured Lewis. "Keep your distance that way."

"The hard part is when I don't have the words."

"Not easy for me either." Lewis wasn't looking at him "Not sure how long we can sit here, nursing the bottle." 

"Could order another."

"Could."

There was a cheer and then epithets shouted in the bar—sounded like an intense game. 

Hathaway swallowed hard. He put his other arm across the back of Lewis' chair then hesitantly onto Lewis' shoulders. _Companionable,_ he thought. _Friendly._

Except his heart was hammering in his chest and Lewis' cheeks were flushed. 

Lewis quirked a smile. "Dessert, we need dessert and coffee before we call it a night." His eyes were warm with understanding and affection. "Take a long slow walk back along the Champs Élysées. Might see the lights on the Eiffel Tower."

The waiter hurried out, distracted, dropped a dessert menu on the table, turning as another cry went up.

"How's the game?" Lewis grinned at the waiter. 

The waiter motioned that he should come inside, but Lewis tilted his head, raised an eyebrow. Hathaway smirked self-consciously at the table. 

The waiter chuckled and dashed back inside. Another cheer went up in the bar.

"Coffee? Are we planning on staying up to get the final score of the game?"

Hathaway shrugged. "Rooting for the underdog. And there's your wager." 

"And if we do it right, we'll get back just in time to get on the train back in the morning." Lewis gave him a knowing look. "Never see that view of the night sky from the hotel room."

"I don't want to bollocks this up, Robbie." _There. He said it._

"Same for me." Lewis sighed. "Should feel strange, celebrating my thirtieth wedding anniversary this way, but it doesn't."

"Maybe Val approves of me."

"Maybe." Lewis drained his wine and set down his glass. "It—never goes away, James. The feeling's faded, but she'll always be in my heart. Can't change that," he rubbed his ear, "And I don't know that I would want to, so's you know. Keeps me grounded, in a way." He pulled away from Hathaway. "Doesn't mean I care any less, though, about the people in my life now." 

Hathaway nodded, his arm dropping back to his side. _Then why are you pulling away?_ He huffed a sigh and settled back in his chair. 

The reflection of colored lights strung on moored boats danced along the Seine. Streetlamps marked the way back. Lights twinkled in the trees, along buildings, lit up businesses. Only a few candles remained lit at the tables around them. Fewer people strolled by. It was as if everyone in Paris was sitting in front of the soft glow of television sets tuned to the game.

At their little table outside, Lewis sat up straighter, yawning mightily, stretching his arms over his head. He put one across Hathaway's shoulders with a smug expression of accomplishment.

"Very smooth," Hathaway's mouth curled up in a smile. He nestled his head back against Robbie's arm, slouching so their sides pressed together, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stay in this awkward position for long. 

Robbie turned his face and suddenly Hathaway was inches from Lewis' mouth, so close he didn't know where to look: eyes, nose, mouth—it was overwhelming. He stiffened involuntarily; Lewis let him go with a fond, if exasperated, little shake. 

"It'll take us an hour or more to walk back. We'd best get to it. Unless you're in a rush—might be able to get us a taxi," said Lewis, getting up to take care of the bill inside.

"No rush," Hathaway said, too quickly. He chewed on his thumbnail. _Yes, walking would clear his head._

"Oh, what about your wager?" He said, as Lewis returned.

Lewis shrugged. "Left it for the waiter. We've been sitting here for a long time."

 _It seemed like no more than an hour,_ Hathaway marveled. The entire day was a kaleidoscopic blur.

They started along the Seine agreeing to cross to the Champs Élysées at Pont de Invalides, falling in step as they usually did, quickly walking, shoulder to shoulder. Then Lewis took Hathaway's hand and pulled him to a more leisurely pace. 

_We are walking in Paris on a warm summer night hand in hand,_ thought Hathaway. _Any minute I will wake up and discover that it's been a dream.But until then_ —he let go of Lewis' hand and slipped his arm across his shoulders— _I will enjoy ever blessed moment of it._

Lewis grinned at him, happily winding his arm around Hathaway's waist which slowed their pace even more.

They didn't speak—what do you say in a dream? 

They meandered, bodies pressed close as they walked, stopping every so often to look at the lights or to share a delighted grin, amazed that they were here, together.

It was after eleven when they heard the roar. The Arc de Triomphe loomed ahead. The roar—a cheer—grew louder. They dropped their arms, copper's instincts rising. Both began scanning the boulevard for trouble. 

The roar grew louder.

The streets, which had become largely deserted due to the game were suddenly full of men and women, shouting and screaming, laughing and crying. People were honking their horns, standing head and shoulders out of the sunroofs of cars that circled around the Arc de Triomphe.

It was as if Paris had gone insane.

Traffic was at a standstill at all of the streets that fed into Place L'Etoile—several foolhardy men crossed the boulevard by jumping from car to car. Someone set off fireworks near the arch—police officers on motorbikes wove their way through the standstill traffic on the Champs Elysees as a precaution. People wearing Algerian flags as capes swooped in and out through the cheering crowd.

Hathaway pulled Lewis to the concrete traffic barriers. _I've been here before,_ he thought, remembering how the day started. He sat down, Robbie standing first beside him, and then settling within his embrace, the two men facing the Arc de Triomphe and the swarm of cheering football fans.

More fireworks. Sirens. Horns. Champagne corks. Singing. 

"They said it would never happen. Once in a lifetime. A miracle. I will forever remember this moment." Hathaway translated. He hugged Robbie tighter and rested his chin on Robbie's shoulder as he sat behind the man. He couldn't see Robbie's expression. He felt irrationally out of control, almost as if he were falling, his only lifeline in the swirling chaos was the man in his arms.

"Didn't hear anyone shout that last one." There was a smile in Robbie's voice. 

"It's an observation." James sighed."I think I'm meant to spend the rest of my life trying to find words for whatever this is between us."

"Maybe there are no words. Maybe it's just this." Robbie leaned his head against James' head and sighed.

The silence lengthened, becoming weighty and serious. Possibly deadly.

It was so fragile, this new thing between them. This hand-holding, plushy-butterfly thing that glittered like lovelocks on a bridge over the Seine.

Hathaway grabbed it back. "If I don't say it, I'll regret it. Maybe not now, but soon, and for the rest of my life."

"Oh, right James." Lewis began chuckling. His laughter was like champagne bubbles and Hathaway relaxed, sensing the fun between them again. 

"We'll always have Paris," they said together.

 

On June 26, 2014, Algeria won to get into the World Cup semi-finals; their first win, ever. It was a significant moment for fans in Africa and the Middle East. Hundreds of people partied at the Arc de Triomphe until police peacefully cleared the crowd at two in the morning. Algeria valiantly played Germany in their next round—attempting to right a wrong that happened 32 years ago—and lost.  
Germany went on to win the 2014 World Cup.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies if anyone's sensibilities are offended by certain phrases and attitudes in this fic. 
> 
> During the FIFA World Cup, old national rivalries were on parade. British tour guides sarcastically used the phrase: "spitting distance" to refer to anything French (England was out of the running and France was still in). French guides took great care to remind us that they bravely sacrificed their nation so that the treasures in the Louvre would survive--they had choice words for every other nation in the EU. A German teacher shared this observation: "People forget we are a united Germany now. The country that wronged Algeria no longer exists. Yet during FIFA, we fight World War II again. In August, we return to normal. Football defuses the tension." 
> 
> Americans are clueless about FIFA, world wars, history in general, foreign languages, and the metric system (to name a few things). But we know a good party when we see it and the spontaneous eruption of joy at the Arc de Triomphe that night seemed a perfect way to ignite the romance between James and Robbie. Hope you take this in the spirit of fun that was intended.


End file.
